Certainly this treatment of the tower is unique; there is nothing
to compare with it in Boston, Massachusetts, and cannot be even
when the interior of the Old South is groined.
When we came out of the church, we found the weather amusing
itself as usual in England, raining with wind, then blowing
without rain, and presently, but by no means decisively, sunning
without either wind or rain. The conditions were favorable to a
further exploration of the town, which seemed to have a passion
for old cannon, and for sticking them about in all sorts of odd
nooks and corners. We found one smaller piece over a gateway,
which we were forbidden by a sign-board to enter on pain of
prosecution for trespassing. There was nothing else to prevent
our entering, and we went in, to find ourselves in an alley with
nothing but a Gypsy van in it. Nothing but a Gypsy van! As if
that were not the potentiality of all manner of wild romance!
Whether the alley belonged to Gypsies, or the Gypsies had
trespassed by leaving their van in it, I shall now probably never
know, but I commend the inquiry to any reader of mine whom these
pages shall inspire to repeat our pilgrimage.
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